“Isn’t this the Los Angeles?”
“Yes, by—!” A gush of oaths before which the girl gasped as if a bowl of ice-cold water had been, dashed in her face. “Oh-h!—if Louis heard that! Luckily he will never know. He’s out driving with Bella.”
She took her courage in both hands. “I shall report you if you don’t let me by. Your own agent introduced me to the Los Angeles purser, and called him Mr. Brown.”
“Purser, purser”—more blasphemy—“I wouldn’t let the owner of this ship on board before nine o’clock.”
“Mr. Brown said—”
“Brown! Brown!” shouted the man, goaded to frenzy by this feminine obstinacy. “Look yere, if he was Black and the devil himself I wouldn’t let ye in after the orders I’ve had.”
The crowd chuckled and swayed.
The tall girl craned her neck over the barrier in the uncertain light. She had caught sight of a lurking figure uncommonly like the fat purser’s, seeming to seek shelter behind a bale of merchandise. “Why, there he is now,” she said quite low. “Mr. Brown!” No answer, and the figure vanished. “Mr. Brown!” she called, in a clear, penetrating voice. “I’m here, as you told me to be. Mr. B—”
Hurriedly the tun-bellied figure reappeared and whispered to the dragon. A brief low-voiced altercation between the two men. Only one word distinguishable to the girl on the other side of the barrier, “noospaper.” A growling menace of “trouble sure” from the dragon, and then the gate opened a cautious crack. The noospaper woman and her suit-case were plucked from the murmuring crowd and set upon the ship. She turned to thank her rescuer. For all his amplitude he had melted into air. On the far side of the barrier, under the electric light, the crowd murmured and swayed, coupling the name of Brown with opprobrium.